


They Say Love Is Pain

by Sarai



Category: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Dyslexia, Jan Van Eck's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23117284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarai/pseuds/Sarai
Summary: Jan Van Eck loves his son, Wylan knows that. Jan is trying to help him, to make him strong enough to survive a world that holds no place for a boy like him.Wylan knows that.They're both doing their best.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43





	1. Defect

**Author's Note:**

> I have this fascination with Jan Van Eck. I just can't wrap my head around the why of him. Why did he keep Wylan? When Wylan's dyslexia was undeniable, why not get rid of him just like he did Marya? Accidents happen, after all. This is not my first and likely will not be my last fic exploring Jan Van Eck's actions. 
> 
> TW: this chapter contains a graphic animal death (a bird)

The target streaked into the air, but it only crossed a quarter of the field before falling victim to those twin sounds: the report of the rifle, the crack of breaking clay. It burst into a small cloud of dust, shattered beyond repair.

Jan Van Eck lowered the rifle from his shoulder.

“That’s how it’s done.”

Wylan nodded. He knew that. He wasn’t a baby, he was ten, he knew things!

“Good. Get your rifle up and cocked.”

Wylan obeyed, fumbling but managing to rest the rifle against his shoulder like his father had. It was sort of like holding his flute, he supposed—not holding it correctly, but the motions were not entirely different. Then he remembered the second task, but he couldn’t cock it without lowering it, so he did.

Jan swatted his son’s hand. “Get your finger off the trigger when you’re swinging that thing around!”

“S-sorry!”

Blushing, Wylan took his finger off the trigger, then carefully cocked the rifle and brought it back to his shoulder. He looked up to his father. Had that made up for his mistake? Jan was watching, but gave not so much as a nod. He simply turned to face forward and called, “Pull!”

When his father shot, everything had just come together. The rifle simply seemed to know how to track the target, when to fire. It didn’t go that way for Wylan. He didn’t even see the target before hearing it hit the ground.

Wylan looked to his father again.

“Pull!”

The second attempt was a failure, too, but this time Wylan understood that he mustn’t take his attention away. He managed to briefly target the clay pigeon the third time, and the fourth time he squeeze off a shot. It missed and the recoil hit far harder than Wylan had expected, but he had managed a shot!

“Watch closely this time,” Jan said. He demonstrated once more how it was done.

Wylan did make small progress. He learned how to cock his rifle without removing it from his shoulder, not difficult really, and took the recoil better by his third shot, but as the wind picked up and whetted the bitter edge to the late afternoon chill, he had not hit a single target. He had begun to feel heavy from carrying himself.

Jan, meanwhile, did not miss a shot.

 _We’ll go inside soon,_ Wylan promised himself. And maybe tomorrow would be better. Maybe they would shoot again and Wylan would actually manage a hit this time. Or maybe they would leave the countryside and head back to the city. Either would be preferable to another failure like this one.

A group of geese called as they flew overhead. Wylan glanced up. They flew in a sleek V, though one lagged some at the end of the left leg of the V. It gave the V some character, he thought, and he liked that, the way they were like any other group of geese, but a little different. They had a sort of personality to their flight.

The shot sounded, but this time there was no answering smash of clay. Instead, Wylan heard a cry as the lagging goose fell from the formation.

“Why did you do that?”

Jan lowered his rifle and strode onto the field. After a moment’s hesitation, Wylan trotted after his father. He followed until Jan paused, standing over the fallen creature. It was clear the goose would never fly again; its body gave little trembles as it lay there in the grass, and its one good wing gave a desperate flap. He could almost swear he saw desperation and knowing in its eyes.

“Put it out of its misery, Wylan,” Jan said.

“What?”

Put it out of its misery? Did his father really expect him to… to…

Jan gave a meaningful look to the rifle in Wylan’s hand.

“Even you can’t miss this shot,” Jan said.

That was true, but…

Seeing a flash of something, anger on the brink of breaking in his father’s face, Wylan raised the rifle once more to his shoulder. His hands shook, but he managed to cock his weapon and aim it. The goose gave a plaintive, weak honk as it tried to move away and Wylan briefly wondered if it couldn’t be saved if they picked it up right now, if he took it inside and washed out its wound, if—

“The servants can see you. Don’t show weakness.”

Wylan squeezed the trigger. His target was so close the resulting spray of dirt hit his trousers, but the goose went still in the grass, its head a devastated splatter. Something inside Wylan kicked.

Jan grabbed his son’s chin. “No weakness,” he repeated. “Swallow it.”

Wylan gave a tiny nod. He clamped his jaws shut and when the hot bile hit his mouth, he forced it back down through several painful swallows. He could taste it and the tang of the goose’s blood perfuming the air. He felt hot and prickly all over. His head swam and he looked to his father. Hadn’t he done this right? Wylan waited for a word of praise. He wanted his father to hug him and make it all okay.

“Good,” Jan said, taking his hand away from Wylan’s face. It wasn’t enough. “Now pick it up and bring it inside, no use wasting good meat.”

Wylan’s jaw dropped. Was his father serious?

“What else was the defective thing good for? It was the right thing to do, it made the flock stronger. The geese know. It’s why they’ve flown off and left… that. Now pick it up. You may hold it by its feet.”

Wylan’s hand trembled, but he picked up the goose. When his knuckles brushed its feathers, they were still warm. His fingers closed around the goose’s feet. When he lifted it, the goose’s neck flopped—his stomach lurched. Said neck’s abrupt end bounced against Wylan’s leg, smearing blood on his trousers.

“Sometimes,” Jan said, “a defect that cannot be corrected must be eliminated.”

A week later, Wylan noticed a new pillow on his bed.


	2. Idiot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This chapter starts to get into the ableism and sexism Wylan has internalized; this will continue into the next chapter as well.

The night was so quiet thirteen-year-old Wylan heard crickets and the soft lap of the canal. If he closed his eyes and listened with all his strength, he liked to imagine he could hear men calling to one another from the ships coming into the harbor. He knew he couldn’t really, but he liked to imagine them, men and ships from every coast of the True Sea, words in languages he couldn’t even identify—and a few words in Fjerdan he actually knew. If he did not imagine, he heard creaks within the mansion, too, but he preferred imagining.

Wylan sat on the edge of his bed, hands folded in his lap, breathing. Just breathing. Each shift ached through him. He actively tried not to think about what had happened that evening, what his father had done—had to do. Because of Wylan.

He thought about reaching for something to make himself feel better. He thought about touching his flute or his sketchbook or himself. But he didn’t.

The pain came in waves. So did the shame. He wanted to curl up and disappear. He wanted an answer to the same old question: Why was he like this? What was so wrong with him? Times like this, Wylan could almost swear he felt the defect like a physical thing inside him. If only it were! If only it could be cut out and Wylan Van Eck made whole.

Wylan opened his eyes and rolled up his nightshirt. The bruises hadn’t formed properly yet, but there were red marks on his abdomen. He remembered the first time a tutor had beaten him, but not the first time his father had to hit him. He knew how long he had been a failure of a student. How long had he been a failure as a son? A failure of a student was so much more objective.

Wylan probed the red places with gentle but curious fingers. They already hurt.

“Wylan?”

He hurriedly dropped his shirt and scooted back, clambering under the covers as the door opened. His nightshirt caught under one knee but stuck around the opposite thigh, biting in as he crossed his legs, but Wylan didn’t want to reach under the covers and smooth it down. The door was already opening.

“I was just going to sleep!” Wylan lied.

To his surprise, his father stepped into the room carrying a mug. They rarely ate or drank more than water outside the dining room—that was what dining rooms were for. Water was one thing, but anything else might attract vermin with crumbs or damage the house’s fine things with spills. Jan sat on the edge of Wylan’s bed and he saw that the mug contained hot chocolate.

Which meant it was for Wylan.

He knew even before Jan said, “I thought you might need it.”

“Thank you,” Wylan said, flooded with a fresh wave of self-loathing at how his father loved him, comforted him. Van Ecks rarely snacked outside the dining room and when they did, they did not bring one another treats. Van Ecks did not _serve_ —that was what servants were for. By bringing the drink himself, Jan spared Wylan having to be seen by others. The shouting earlier had been too loud to be private. It had driven out his feelings, too. They were back now and thanks to Jan, Wylan was shielded in his shame. 

Jan Van Eck was such a good father and he deserved a better son.

Wylan held the mug in both hands. The warmth soothed something inside him. He sipped his drink; it burned, but he refused to spit it out, to show weakness. Instead, he gulped down the scorching mouthful. 

Still, it gave him a moment of sweet, pleasant taste. Jan was close enough for Wylan to smell the sandalwood cologne he favored. It was the scent of his father and it was comforting for Wylan, like the taste of chocolate.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “about… earlier.” His body tensed for what might come next. By mentioning it, perhaps he had invited the rest of the speech Jan had only half-finished shouting at him earlier. Wylan had to suppress a shiver at the memory: the curl of his father’s lip, the disdain for his pathetic idiot of a son who wept like a girl.

Jan nodded solemnly, not quite accepting the apology but not shouting, either. He hadn’t yet changed out of his suit and the red pocket square stood out against the dark gray. Wylan was mostly certain he had seen his father dressed casually in the past. Now the thought sat ill with him. Somehow, he felt like he ought to be dressed better, lying down to sleep with his tie knotted tidily around his neck.

“You know it’s all for your own good,” Jan said.

“Yes, Father.” He truly did know that. 

Jan gave him a long, steady look, the sort he often gave when he paid a visit during Wylan’s lessons. What was Wylan meant to do now? Uncertain but eager for _something_ , he sipped his drink. It was still too hot.

Jan tousled Wylan’s curls, trailed down Wylan’s face and patted his cheek. It should have made Wylan feel better, but didn’t. Wylan was greedy. He wanted so much more. About five years ago, the once-inescapable nannies had stopped being a part of his life, his care shifted to tutors. Tutors did not hug and cuddle, it was not their job to do so. Still… he wanted…

Jan’s cool, dry fingers moved away from Wylan’s cheek. 

“Tomorrow will be better,” Jan said.

Wylan nodded. It would. He silently promised them both. Tomorrow would be a better day.


	3. Fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: ableist language/ideas; some uncomfortable considerations about Jan and Alys (not super graphic)

Aesthetically, Wylan thought, they could be a regular family. Aesthetically, he could be strolling home from the Church of Barter with his older sister. She was easier to think of that way, as an older sister. His older sister was a bit silly. A chatterbox. But she wasn’t annoying because she was family.

They were a family, two siblings walking home with their loving father. He didn’t mind so much wandering a few steps behind then, since they were all part of the same small group, it was almost sweet to see his father with his arm around his sister’s waist and—

And then Jan Van Eck placed a hand on Alys Van Eck’s bottom, and Wylan froze.

_Not my sister not my sister not my sister…_

Okay. That was his fault. He never should have thought those thoughts. Now he shook his head to get rid of them, standing there in the broad road with his hands in his pockets and his head in hell. Alys was not his sister. 

Wylan had other things to think about, anyway. He liked church and he had enjoyed today’s sermon. The reading was a familiar one, a passage from the Book of Ghezen about a man, Meinard, whose father owned a small shop. Meinard’s father was a responsible man and hesitated to hand over the business to Meinard, who was weak to the temptations of flesh. (Wylan was admittedly uncomfortable hearing that part of the story read aloud.) However, he denied his temptation and worked very hard, even when directly tempted. Meinard had a brother, who was not so weak in spirit, had more natural talent for their work, and would often leave the shop early once the day’s quotas were met, leaving Meinard behind to struggle with said quotas. Yet when disaster struck their shop, it was Meinard whose hard work restored it, even to the point of being able to expand their business into a second shop on the other side of the city. Ghezen had blessed Meinard over his brother because Meinard was industrious, while his brother merely accepted success. 

It wasn’t Wylan’s favorite story, but he liked that there was a story in the Book of Ghezen about the importance of working hard… because Wylan did. He worked very hard. Of course, he never seemed to reach the “prosperity” bit, and… well, he had learned not to lie to his father. He had learned to show integrity. Two out of three wasn’t bad. Besides, he liked the faith aspect, that Meinard’s true strength was his trust in Ghezen and belief that doing right would pay off.

After church, while his father spoke with some of the other merchants, Wylan had been surprised to be approached by the priest. He asked what Wylan thought about the tale of industry.

“I like how it shows that an apparent weakness can be a strength,” Wylan had replied honestly. “Meinard had to work so hard because he didn’t have a natural talent. Because he started out behind everyone else, he became stronger when he was in a new situation. Like… maybe he just wasn’t made for the world he was born into. Maybe he was made for a different world.”

The priest had regarded Wylan curiously for a moment, then given him a slow smile. “What an interesting reading.”

Wylan smiled back.

He didn’t realize, not until Jan told him it was time to leave, that he felt better speaking with the priest than he had in a long time. There was no miracle, the fog and clouds did not part to pour warm sunshine over Ketterdam, but Wylan Van Eck felt a sense of peace. And that was miracle enough for him.

All too quickly that peace was left behind, replaced with the awkwardness of walking just behind his father and… and Alys.

The newest Van Eck.

In the three weeks since the wedding, Wylan had struggled to make sense of this new addition. Making sense of Alys could be a struggle, but her _presence_ ought to have been easier to understand. She was his father’s new wife. 

And—that was fine. It was normal for a man to be lonely, to want companionship. Wylan hadn’t heard his mother’s name in almost eight years, and at fifteen he understood the longing for closeness, even if his own thoughts never strayed in that particular direction. But why Alys? Why someone so young? And why couldn’t Wylan have had a little more time to adjust instead of learning about it two weeks before the wedding? Wylan only met her once and his father was too busy to explain… anything… and then they were married. Married! To a girl barely older than Wylan himself!

Wylan didn’t have much to do with his new ste—no. No, he couldn’t call her that. He didn’t care if she was married to his father, she was not his stepmother. But she wasn’t his sister, either.

Though he wished no ill on Alys, Wylan wished she had never married his father. He felt like he had no place in this family anymore. 

“Wylan!”

A hand closed on his shoulder, bringing him back to the present. It was a warm spring day and he had slipped off his jacket, a bold move he probably shouldn’t have made if he was going to allow his mind to wander. He should have just kept his entire suit on regardless of how uncomfortably hot it made him. Now he was daydreaming and looking inappropriately casual.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Come along, then.”

Wylan did, aware as he fell into step beside his father that this was the first time in ages he had spent any time alone with Jan.

“Father?”

“What is it, Wylan?”

“Do you think I might attend seminary?”

The idea had been a quiet scraping in his mind for some time. He liked church more than almost anything else in his life and could recite large chunks of the Book of Ghezen. He could memorize the rest, he had no doubt. And he liked studying the Book. Or… hearing about it, thinking about it. Wylan knew he wasn’t fit to inherit his father’s company, so this seemed a reasonable place he might go instead.

As they arrived at the familiar Van Eck mansion, Jan tilted his head closer to his son’s and replied, his tone sharp and low, “Don’t be absurd. You can’t be sent to seminary because you can’t read.*”

Wylan would make a good novice. He was obedient and studious in his own way, and he might not be what his father had wanted but he was faithful. 

“Is that the most important thing, though?” Wylan persisted as he followed his father inside. “I can learn. I can serve. I—”

Jan turned with a look that knocked the breath and words out of him. His father’s visible fury told Wylan he had gone too far, but he did not know precisely why. Not until Jan once more spoke.

“You selfish little fool! You will not reveal your weak mind to others, is that understood? You would destroy this family’s reputation. You and I and everyone else in this family would be a laughingstock.”

Blushing, Wylan nodded. He hadn’t thought about that. “Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

“No, I wouldn’t expect you to.”

His blush heated.

“Now pull yourself together. You will join my wife and I for lunch and then I would prefer not to see you for the rest of the day. No doubt you have studying to attend to.”

Wylan nodded again. For years, Jan had done Wylan these favors. After Wylan had done something especially stupid, Jan often gave him space to recover, to lick his wounds and tend his shame. He might not be able to help Wylan. He protected him, though. How much must Jan have loved his son that, after all of this, he still protected him?

  
* “You can’t be sent to seminary because you can’t read.” — direct quote from the book


	4. Gorgeous, Brilliant Wylan Van Eck

“Affair?” Wylan repeated, puzzled.

“That was the rumor, anyway,” Jesper told him, his attention luckily held by the intricate lines of his glass and the way it caught the light through his drink. Wylan liked those glasses, too. They were works of art. But he had something else on his mind. “That you left home after being caught in an affair with your tutor.”

An affair. Ghezen, if only that had been the case! It wasn’t the reason Wylan “left”, of course, but it wasn’t entirely fiction. It just… wasn’t how it sounded.

They were in the music room. Jesper had shucked off his tie and jacket, poured a drink, thrown himself down on the settee, and declared himself done with this entire nonsense of a day. Wylan, feeling particularly bold, had taken the opportunity to sprawl on the settee with his head in Jesper’s lap. It was almost enough to take his mind off that day’s ridiculous Merchant Council meeting.

Almost.

Then Jesper asked about Wylan’s “affair”, and that took his mind entirely off the meeting.

“I don’t mind,” Jesper added. “I don’t need to be your first, Wylan. The Saints know you won’t be mine!”

Wylan scowled. That was  _ not _ helping. He knew Jesper had an extensive history and while Wylan neither minded nor judged, he did not like their relationship in that context. He liked being Jesper’s boyfriend. Being Jesper’s latest conquest made him feel small.

Jesper cleared his throat. “Not that any of it matters, of course.”

Wylan sat up, careful not to knock Jesper’s arm and spill his drink. He went to the piano.

“Wylan.”

“I want to play you something.”

He was a… he was a  _ fine _ pianist. His true talent and passion lay with the flute, but he was fine at the piano. It was simply more of a Jesper instrument. Wylan liked the dreaminess he could evoke with his flute. He liked to imagine the notes taking shape, and those shapes were worlds: long, sinuous rivers; ancient forests so thickly canopied sunlight never touched the ground. The flute felt more natural to Wylan. Piano notes looked like cities, their buildings growing even taller than those in Ketterdam, the crowds more bustling. Even when he played quick, short notes on his flute, they felt like a flurry of leaves or a fox running in the shadows. Quick piano notes felt like crowds.

Jesper liked cities. He liked crowds. Wylan would play his flute for Jesper, but he preferred piano—and he doubted Jesper cared. He tried, for Wylan, but music was simply that for Jesper. Just music. Sound, not whole worlds.

Wylan was seventeen.

Almost—he was almost seventeen.

He was sixteen, but barely. He was an adult now, a man responsible for his father’s—for his trading company, for maintaining a good home for his mama and the cleverest, most loving, and (even the thought made him blush) most beautiful man he had ever encountered. Right now, he didn’t know how to face that clever, loving, beautiful man. He didn’t know how to explain.

When he finished the song, Jesper was beside him on the piano bench. Wylan had noticed his arrival, but forced his attention to stay on the music.

“Wylan, if someone hurt you…”

Oh, Ghezen, Jesper thought so  _ well _ of him!

“It wasn’t like that,” Wylan said.

“Okay—but if it was, it wasn’t your fault.”

“It wasn’t. I don’t want you touching me with that thought in your head.” Wylan heard the phrasing a moment too late. He reached for Jesper’s hands. “But I want you touching me.”

Jesper grinned, and that grin was everything Wylan wanted in the world.

Between the two, that was that.

That night, though, after Jesper had fallen asleep, Wylan lay awake. It wasn’t how Jesper feared—no one had taken advantage of Wylan. But something  _ had _ happened, and knowing it was a rumor broad enough to have reached the Barrel left him unsettled.

He had burned the pillow, the one his father had stuffed with feathers from the goose Wylan shot. He didn’t tell Jesper why. Jesper didn’t ask. But feathers stank when they burned and sometimes that scent seemed to linger. Nothing truly  _ left _ .

Wylan pushed back the covers. He had slipped out of bed before, mostly when he woke early and wanted to let Jesper sleep. This time, Wylan didn’t make it to the edge of the mattress before an arm wrapped around his waist.

“Nope,” Jesper murmured sleepily. “No going. Deal.”

They did have a deal. When the memories were too heavy, Wylan had promised not to be alone. Sixteen-year-old Wylan made that promise. But he wasn’t just sixteen-year-old Wylan. He was the ten-year-old scattering breadcrumbs for migrating birds. He was the thirteen-year-old muffling his sobs in his goose-feather pillow. He was fifteen-year-old Wylan feeling foolish and invisible but saying his prayers anyway.

He was almost-seventeen-year-old Wylan, whose boyfriend had asked him about an affair with a tutor, and who had been too confused and embarrassed to answer.

“Maybe I just need the washroom,” Wylan retorted.

“Do you?”

Wylan hated lying. He couldn’t think of what to say.

After too much of a silence, Jesper sat up. He drew Wylan closer and Wylan cuddled against him. How did he get so lucky to have Jesper in his life? If anyone had told him, back when Wylan was just a rumpled up kid building explosives for the Dregs, that he would one day find himself back on Geldstraat, waking up every morning beside Jesper Fahey, he wouldn’t have believed it. He still didn’t entirely believe it sometimes.

Leaning against Jesper’s chest, Wylan said, “I can feel your heart beating.”

“Is it a beat you can dance to?”

Jesper had seen Wylan dance and knew that regardless of the beat, Wylan could not dance. He knew formal dances, social dances. Dances that called for improvisation… he did them to make Jesper smile.

“Don’t be cross with me,” he murmured.

“Have I ever been cross with you?”

Wylan drew in breath to answer.

“Since after we kissed,” Jesper added, poking Wylan in the side. Wylan laughed. Sometimes he resented his ticklishness. And Jesper’s shameless manipulation of it!

“My tutor didn’t hurt me,” Wylan said. “I asked him to hold me. Not… to touch me, not like that. I just—I asked him to hold me. When my father saw, he must have thought I was being taken advantage of. I wasn’t. I just…”

“You needed a hug. Yeah, I’ve met you, Wy, I know you like hugs.”

Wylan wasn’t sure if he should laugh or blush, so he did both. “Not fair,” he objected.

“How is that not fair?”

“Because you’re only judging based on Jesper hugs, it’s better than normal hugs.”

Wylan knew Jesper didn’t understand it;  _ Wylan _ didn’t understand it, so how could he ask anyone else to? But, Ghezen, he needed to be held. Aside from the more blistering sorts of intimacy, he needed to feel skin against his, gentle and lingering. Jesper’s hand in his. Jesper’s arms around him. Jesper’s body against Wylan’s while they both slept. Sometimes, Wylan found himself sneaking glances at Jesper to be sure he looked as healthy and lively as ever. Now that he used his powers regularly, Jesper positively glowed.

It was reassuring. Those long bouts of contact left Wylan rejuvenated, like he had leeched youth.

“I need your biscuits.”

“Well—”

“Not those biscuits!” Wylan objected. He blushed. Trust Jesper to make that joke even now! Despite the blush, Wylan reached across Jesper to turn on the lamp on his nightstand, then fumbled through the drawer.

“Help yourself, darling,” Jesper drawled.

“Since you insist.”

Wylan returned a moment later, sitting beside Jesper with the tin of biscuits he kept in the nightstand drawer. He pulled the lid off the tin and crammed a sugar cookie into his mouth. Sweet and delicious and exactly what he needed right now! He sighed carefully, mindful of the crumbs.

Jesper took a biscuit for himself. “Well, if we’re doing things properly!” he said. Wylan didn’t think there was a proper way to have sweets in bed, but he kept that to himself.

Sometimes it was like that. They needed each other, leaned on each other. Some nights were nothing but shivering and tears. Other nights were like this. There was pain, but they had each other, so there were smiles, too.

“I love you, you know, you biscuit-thieving little monster,” said Jesper, apropos of nothing.

“Thieving?” Wylan asked. He felt his blush reach scalding levels in anticipation of what he planned. He only got as far as the meaningful glance at Jesper’s lap before he was too tongue-tied to speak, but Jesper seemed to get the joke, anyway. He threw his head back and laughed.

Wylan, deeply pleased with himself for making Jesper laugh like that, took the opportunity to grab another biscuit.  
  
“Does everyone know?” Wylan asked.

“About my biscuits?”

“About my… affair.” Even saying it made Wylan want to squirm. He had  _ not _ been involved in an affair. Maybe he should have liked a rumor that made him sound more interesting than he actually was, but… “It makes me sound pathetic. Weak.”

“It makes you sound attractive and desirable. Which you are,” Jesper added, stroking Wylan’s arm in a way that made him take a very deliberate slow, deep breath. “Anyway, it wasn’t common knowledge. I only heard from Inej.”

All too soon the snacks were all eaten—Wylan made a note to himself to buy more tomorrow—and Wylan’s energy was failing him. He tried to hide it, but by the third stifled yawn, he knew it was pointless.

“Enough of your antics,” Jesper said. He laid down and patted the bed beside him. “Come on.”

Wylan felt his eyes widen. Yes, it was what he wanted, but did Jesper have to be so… so  _ blatant _ about it? After a moment, though, he stopped worrying about it. If Jesper was inviting Wylan to cuddle close and fall asleep tangled together, Wylan was not going to argue.

He wanted to say that Jesper was perfect, because to Wylan, Jesper was perfect. That tended to make Jesper anxious, though. It made him feel like he wasn’t meeting Wylan’s standards—so Wylan had stopped calling Jesper perfect. (Even though he still was.) They could build up to it again—and was it Wylan’s fault Jesper was so quick he scooped up all the good nicknames? Honestly, what right had Jesper to call Wylan something like “sunshine” when Jesper was the one who could light up a room with his smile?

So Wylan did what he could.

“You’re wonderful,” he said. Which was true, if insufficient.

He settled beside Jesper, took a deep breath.

“Are you sniffing me?”

“I can’t help it if you smell good,” Wylan mumbled.

Jesper laughed. “I love you, my gorgeous, brilliant Wylan Van Eck.”

“I love you. I love everything about you.”

“Well, I double-love everything about you.”

“Tri—” Wylan interrupted himself with a yawn. “Triple. Also, forever.”

Jesper rubbed little circles on Wylan’s back. “Go to sleep. You can keep loving me in the morning, and you have a lifetime of Jesper hugs to look forward to. I promise I’ll be here.”

Wylan was already drifting off, but he gave a happy hum in response.

“And so will my biscuits.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was Jesper's comment a little contrived to make that chapter title? Yes. Do I care? Not enough to change it!
> 
> The End! I hope you've enjoyed my fic <3


End file.
